A Study in Macabre
by Vee Rathbone
Summary: Just because sociopaths often lack the understanding of feelings, doesn't mean they don't have them. Morbid (oh, but what fun), detailed, closely follows storyline (with a twist!). Johnlock. Enjoy. :)
1. Chapter 1

The shrink sitting opposite him, perched on the edge of her chair, feigning interest of some sort, was a horrible contrast to the life Dr. John Watson had grown accustomed to. In fact, the whole of London was a contrast. It was terribly nice, the air was pleasant – if you don't mind the smell of burning fuel and too many people, that is – and crisp, and... different.

John was having a hard time adjusting to life 'on the outside', living in a tiny flat on an equally tiny military pension. His life was boring. He got up, had coffee, walked around as much as his leg would allow, read in the sun, ate food, and slept. When he slept, he had terrible dreams, almost nightmares. Times when he was at war, frequently when he was injured. He would wake up and cry, feeling scared. Feeling other things that he couldn't name. He'd spoken to his psychiatrist about all of these things... and felt he was getting nowhere. He was... sort of empty.

"John, you're a soldier... it's bound to take you some time to adjust to civilian life. That's normal." she yawned, writing some notes on her notepad. How is your blog going?"

"Oh, that. It's great! Lots of, er, things... more or less, to write about." He lied.

"You're not writing, are you?" She asked, not even looking up at him. Shame, she was pretty. Even looking at women made him feel empty and weird, which caused him to try relentlessly to attract some pretty lady.

"You... you just wrote 'still has trust issues' on your fancy paper..." he replied.

"And you're reading my writing upside-down, what does that say?" She looked at him, rising from her chair. "John... you need to get out, really get out. Go see some old friends! Do something... and write about what happens to you." She put her papers away in a file marked 'Watson, John', which was a very odd thing for John to see.

"But, the strange thing is, since the war... nothing really happens to me." He mumbled, making a show of leaving. His therapist smiled in a small way, waving him off.

"Go see a friend."

"Right. Will do."

_Great. A friend. Where the hell am I going to find one of those? _John asked himself, limping down the hallway of his therapist's office building. _All these people in the city, and I don't even have a friend to go to._ He pondered a long while about seeing his sister, however, discarded the idea a few days ago, seeing as he doesn't agree with her recent divorce and her problems with alcohol. Finding a friend was going to prove difficult.

* * *

John's school hadn't changed a bit. Same medical students, same London-y vibe, same green grass. He loved it, being back at the school was almost like having a friend. The big, looming building rising in the sunshine was the closest thing to his previous life. John was actually taking the advice of his therapist, and seeking a friend to see. His thoughts kept straying back to Harry, his sister, and each time he shook them out of his head, knowing that Harriet Watson couldn't be the only person he knew. He'd had friends, colleagues, school mates... and he'd lost touch with each and every one of them, being away at war.

"John! John Watson! Wait!" John turned to see a man struggling to run to catch up with him on the lawn of St Bart's. He was large, and dressed in a suit. He squinted up at John, out of breath, when he had caught up.

_Well, at least he walks at my pace..._ John thought, frowning at his own morbid mind. His leg twinged, and he tried to hide his confused grimace by looking at a squirrel scurrying up a tree just past the man talking to him.

"John, it's me, Mike. Mike Stamford, we trained at Bart's together... I heard you were off somewhere, getting shot at or something! How are you?" the man wheezed. Realization dawned in John's mind, along with a streak of random, white-hot anger. A recent problem. His hand twitched, and he made a funny movement trying to hide it. _Shove it, John_, he thought, forcing calm.

"I got shot." He said with a smile, gesturing to his cane. "Coffee?"

Mike Stamford showed a mixture of amusement and shock on his face, which made John happy. _An acquaintance!_ His mind whirled. _This will probably be boring, but hopefully some small thing of interest will pop up._

"Sure!" said Mike. "I know, I got fat," he added sheepishly, causing John to stutter a moment. "But that's okay, it happens. There's a coffee stand just down the way here, in the main building. It's new, if you haven't been."

"I haven't. It's been awhile."

"So what was it like? Being in the war and all?" Mike asked, watching a frisbee cross their path, closely followed by a student. John followed his gaze, only half-interested in the topic.

"Eh, you know, getting shot at, shooting, war, trauma, all that. Acts of heroism." He shrugged.

"Ahhh."

"So... er, what about you" Wishing to change the subject as they moved toward the line, John turned it to Mike. Talking about the war was hard in a way he couldn't explain, he'd much rather hear someone drone on about a life he didn't live.

"Oh!" Mike brightened up, "Things are good, I'm teaching now, here. All the bright young things, like we used to be." He smiled. "God I hate them."

John chuckled. "Do you really?" He smiled at the barista, approaching the counter. "Black, no sugar, please."

"Always running about, thinking they know it all." Mike grabbed his coffee and took a sip, making that common face when he found it was too hot. "Ugh. I always do that. Too eager I guess. Hey, anyway, where are you living? In London? I assume so, that's the John Watson I kn-."

"I'm not the John Watson you..." John cut him off, caught himself, then smiled awkwardly. "God... I'm sorry. It's difficult. I can't afford much on an Army pension, honestly."

"It's fine. Couldn't you flatshare or something?"

"Really? Who'd want to have me as a flatmate?" John said seriously, faltering as Mike began to chuckle. "What's funny about that?"

"You're the second person to say that to me today." He retorted while mysteriously sipping his coffee.

"Really? I hope the first was a pretty lady." Mike laughed heartily at the joke and started to get up, indicating that John was to follow. _Okay_, thought John, _now my day is getting slightly interesting. I may have something to blog about after all_.

* * *

"Shut up."

"Oh, hi to you too, Sherlock." John heard Mike say as the door to the lab opened.

"I said shut up, I'm working and you know I don't _like_ people thinking in my working space so please, Mike, give me your phone because I need to text and mine is too... obvious." All of his words pushed together like a speeding run-on sentence dripping with arrogance. Not once did he lift his eyes from the microscope, yet he knew it was Mike who opened the door. John walked in and stationed himself silently by the end of the lab table, holding his cane in front of him.

The man sitting in front of the microscope, Sherlock as he was called, was wearing all black, slightly appalling in the stark white and chrome lab room. His dark hair was a messy mop, and he wore a constant grimace, judging from what John could see. Certainly not a pretty lady, much to John's dismay.

"Sorry Sherlock," Mike smiled, "My mobile's in my coat." He took a seat.

"Uh, you can use mine." John fished for his phone in his pocket. Sherlock looked at him, expecting him to introduce himself, no amusement or thanks on his face whatsoever.

"This is my old friend, Dr John Watson." piped Mike, rising to the occasion of introduction and gesturing to John. Sherlock stood up in one fluid movement and took John's phone from him.

"Thank you. Afghanistan or Iraq?" He asked, looking at the phone rather than at John, texting as he talked.

"Uh, pardon?"

"I said Afghanistan or Iraq? Better yet, do you like the violin? I play violin while I'm working sometimes, it helps me think. Would that bother you, as a potential flatmate?" the strange man asked pointedly, still texting. John looked at Sherlock, then at Mike.

"You told him about me?" came the question. Mike grinned and shook his head.

"No," quipped Sherlock, "It's merely obvious. I told Mike this morning that no one could possibly stand me as a flatmate, and here he is after lunch introducing me to someone who has obviously just returned to London from the war, someone who clearly isn't 'just on holiday' and someone who needs a... flatmate." he handed John's phone back.

"How could you possibly know all of that?" a flabbergasted John asked. Mike stifled laughter.

"I just do, and it could be because it's, well... obvious. I'm looking at a flat in the heart of London, meet me there later." Sherlock made to go out the door. "I have to run, I left my riding crop in the mortuary." John blanched. _Riding crop_... he thought. Sherlock certainly was odd, he could see why no one would want him as a flatmate.

"But," John asked after Sherlock "I don't even know who you are, or where this place is..."

"Oh, that. The address is 221B Baker Street. I'm Sherlock Holmes. See you later." He winked, closing the door to the lab.

"Bye now." Mike said after him, "And yes, he's always like that." he added, catching the look on John's face.

On the other side of the door, Sherlock stood, breathing shallowly, listening to their conversation about him, for 'learning purposes only', as he told himself repeatedly. He didn't understand the concept of friends, and people merely tolerated him. The only person he can see as liking or accepting him would possibly be Molly, the nerdy morgue girl, or his mother, the latter of which he preferred not to think about. The possibility of having a... flatmate was very interesting.

He wasn't sure what to think, but he knew that this soldier, this John Watson would indeed turn up, and with that knowledge Sherlock discarded all thought unrelated to his M.I.A. riding crop.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock stood on the front step of 221B Baker Street, people-watching.

_Oh, no, don't go with him, he's obviously cheating!_ He thought, watching the tail end of a lover's spat across the street. _Ugh, why are people so unobservant?_ The clouds in the sky were flat; they reached far beyond what's possible for one person to see.

A car teetered by, below the speed limit, showing Sherlock that the driver had recently been ticketed for reckless driving, and that he'd been drinking. _Boring_.

Being unused to feelings, Sherlock usually didn't worry about things. He usually had a knack for knowing everything, about everyone. His deductions were rarely wrong, and when they were, the right answer wasn't far off. So what about this John Watson?

If he didn't know better, Sherlock might actually think he was a tad excited to have a flatmate. It would be the closest thing to a friend he's ever had.

What did he know about this soldier, exactly? He knew his brother was an alcoholic, and that John refuses contact with said brother. Possibly the divorce, possibly the drinking, little of both, either way... good for Sherlock. He knew the limp was psychosomatic. But what else? John seemed... empty. Different. Not like your usual haunted soldier, in fact, entirely opposite. There was an unusual hungry air about the short man.

Sherlock glanced up as the taxi door opened, dropping off an apprehensive John Watson.

"Evening, Mr Holmes." he held out his hand, which Sherlock accepted. _Niceties_.

"Oh please, call me Sherlock. Shall we?"

"Right. This is nice, but it looks like it would be expensive, right in London." he noted as Sherlock knocked on the door.

"Oh, I know the landlady, Mrs Hudson, I helped her out when her husband had a murder charge in Florida." Sherlock could hear the lady in question bustling around inside.

"Let me guess, you got him out?" John gave a small smile.

"Oh no, I ensured it." grinned Sherlock, turning full-smile to a purple-clad Mrs Hudson, who practically opened the door with a ready hug.

* * *

The flat wasn't exactly what he'd expected. The patterned walls were bad enough without the mismatching hotel-room drapes and the art deco fireplace, and the dust was very thick. It seemed as if someone had left their things laying about, and had left very recently to stir up all that dust. Nonetheless, it was a far cry better than where John was now.

"This could be nice..." he muttered.

"Yes, my thoughts exactly," piqued Sherlock, "which is why I went ahead and moved my things in."

"I was just thinking the last tenant had left in a rush and forgot a few... belongings." John faltered at seeing the almost scared look on his new acquaintance's face, even if it was brief. _I need to stop doing that abrasive thing_. He thought while mentally kicking himself. It was a trait he didn't particularly like.

"Well, of course I can, er, clean up a bit." the curly-headed man stated, a little too loudly. He tossed a few pillows around, found a knife, stuck said knife in the mantle of the fireplace, and fluttered about oddly, apparently 'cleaning'. All of which John found terribly amusing.

"That's a skull!" he pointed out with his cane.

"Yes. Friend of mine." Sherlock looked down, slightly shifting moods. "When I say friend..." John barely heard the words under his breath. This strange man certainly didn't seem the type to have friends. _Neither do I..._ John's thoughts turned a little dark. He watched his potential flatmate with a curious eye. This person was fluid and aloof, cold and distant, yet... bouncy. He jumped from straight-edge razor to a child in no time. Very mercurial.

"There's a second bedroom upstairs, if you'll be needing two." declared Mrs Hudson, breaking John's thought process. He shot a furtive glance at Sherlock, who was avoiding his eye. _What? _His mind screamed for a moment, until he reassured himself it was nothing. He fixed his gaze on the wall.

"Yes, of course we'll be needing two."

The landlady smiled in that way old folks do when they know something you don't. "Don't worry dear, there's all sorts here. The woman across the way, she's got married ones!"

John opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. Sherlock giggled slightly, in a boyish way. _That's just... no. No no no no no. _Definitely two bedrooms needed. John was straight in most senses of the word.

"Oh, Sherlock, I meant to ask you, what do you think of all these suicides?" Mrs Hudson brought a paper from the kitchen, and John took the opportunity to sit down and clear his head. Anything to focus on, anything but the anomalous Sherlock Holmes, was welcome. "There's been three so far, the police are completely stumped!"

"The police are stupid, and speaking of, there's been four." he replied, opening the curtain slightly.

"What?"

"Four." came the reiteration as someone padded up the stairs.

John looked around the room. Skull poster in one corner, accenting the black and white jacquard wallpaper. Decent-looking couches, a union jack pillow. He could like this place. It was definitely unique enough. Some walls should be covered with a different paper... but he would have to live with the lack of flow. His current tiny flat was nowhere near 'decent', and it was completely bare.

Another unique thing was Sherlock. Underneath those dark curls was something else; that head held a brain far more developed than any person John had met. A man that could tell all about him, just with a glance, was very interesting. What was he really like? He couldn't be as aloof as he looked... and that popped collar must be some kind of gimmick. John's thoughts evaporated as a graying, middle-aged man entered the room.

"I need your help." he said in a thick voice, no greeting. His eyes were dark and playful. Purposeful too, like he could beat you at any game. He was obviously in charge.

"I tried to tell you, Lestrade." drawled Sherlock, "What now?"

Lestrade blanched for a quick second, then rolled his eyes. "You know how they all committed suicide without leaving notes?"

"Yes."

"Well, this one did." Lestrade was in a hurry, out of breath. "Will you come?"

Sherlock pondered. "Who is on forensics?"

"Anderson."

"Oh, no, that's not good. Ugh, Anderson won't work with me." The privileged look on the man's face was so ridiculous, John had to stifle a giggle.

"Well, he won't be your assistant!" retorted Lestrade. He was obviously growing impatient.

"I need an assistant. Well, I'm interested anyway. I'll come, but not in the police car. I'll be right behind." Sherlock caved.

With that info, the detective inspector turned on his heel and left for the crime scene. Sherlock waited, looking bored. John secretly wondered what it would be like to be a detective.

Thump. "YES!" giggled Sherlock, startling John. He had apparently jumped out of excitement. Mrs. Hudson shuffled off to another room in the building, leaving the two men alone. She apparently thought they needed the time. Sherlock grabbed his coat and made for the door.

"I'm off, don't wait up" was all he said to his new acquaintance, leaving John wondering why he had come here to look at the flat in the first place.

_I wonder what it would be like to do detective work_, he mused while staring at his bad leg. _Though, working alongside Sherlock Holmes, that could be a proper nightmare. The man seems to know everything! How could I even stand a chance in the same room as a person like him?_

"Oh look at him, dashing about! _My_ husband was the same way." Mrs Hudson came into the sitting room with a smile. He wondered why in the world she put emphasis on husband. "But you're more of the, er, sitting down type, I can tell." John blanched depressingly.

"Mrs. Hudson, I-"

"You just rest your leg. I'll fix you a cuppa, just this once." she made to go to the kitchen.

"DAMN MY LEG!" he shouted, that sudden anger streak shooting white-hot through him. I swore the skull on the mantle was glaring in a mocking tone. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." the apology came as fast as the outburst.

"Oh that's alright dear, I understand, I've got a hip." the landlady patted her side with a melancholy air, heading to the kitchen once again, for John's tea.

John couldn't help but feel like his life was doing a 180. This morning he told his therapist that nothing ever happens to him. Famous last words. Right after that, Mike Stamford had introduced him to his omniscient classmate. John had cursed himself with those words. Now the one question remained: should he move in with this odd bloke? He was very cold, very dark, and yet... very feminine. _Riding crop in the mortuary... _he thought for the second time that day, shuddering as soon as the reflection floated into his mind's eye. _I'm not sure if I should, I mean, I don't even really know anything about this guy! _He ignored the second thought in the back of his head, the one that told him he sounded just like a woman, deciding if she should go on a date with a strange man.

The stairs issued a creak as the man in question walked back into the room, moving in that fluid way he does.

"You're a doctor... an army doctor." as he spoke, his eyes were inquisitive.

"Yes." replied John, using a poker face. He stood up and leaned on his cane, facing Sherlock.

"Any good?"

"Very." his voice became a whisper as Sherlock stepped very close, far too close indeed. John could see the flecks in his blue eyes.

"You've seen horrible injury, death, warfare, possibly quite enough for one lifetime?" he asked in a low, excited voice. John nodded, amused at how Sherlock's eyes danced when he said that morbid sentence. "Ready to see some more?" his face was so close now, John couldn't really think.

"Oh, God, yes." he breathed.


End file.
